WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T.

First when Maggie was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married-spier nae mair-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature's child-
Wiser men than me's beguil'd;
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we 'gree,
I carena by how few may see;—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,

I could write-but Meg maun see't—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

No lady would be thought ambitious who wished to be considered the heroine of this brief and pithy song. Burns wrote it as a speculation upon matrimonial happiness, and with the wish of supplanting the ancient song of "Whistle o'er the lave o't," which it has not

wholly succeeded in accomplishing. The old song is still living, though scarcely worthy of existence :

She sent her daughter to the well,

Better she had gane hersell;

She missed a foot, and down she fell

Whistle o'er the lave o't.

And so it goes on, meaning much more than it openly

expresses.

THE PLAID AMANG THE HEATHER.

The wind blew hie owre muir and lea,
And dark and stormy grew the weather;

The rain rain'd sair; nae shelter near

But my love's plaid amang the heather.

Close to his breast he held me fast;-
Sae cozie, warm, we lay thegither;
Nae simmer heat was half sae sweet

As my luve's plaid amang the heather!

"Mid wind and rain he tauld his tale;
My lightsome heart grew like a feather:

It lap sae quick I cou'dna speak,

But silent sigh'd amang the heather.

The storm blew past ;—we kiss'd in haste;
I hameward ran and tauld my mither;
She gloom'd at first, but soon confest

The bowls row'd right amang the heather.

Now Hymen's beam gilds bank and stream,
Whare Will and I fresh flowers will gather-
Nae storms I fear, I've got my dear

Kind-hearted lad amang the heather.

This I believe is not a popular song; nor is it one of those compositions for which the author has shown any particular regard, or his admirers any marked affection. Neither has it much novelty of sentiment or originality of conception to recommend it. Nevertheless, for flowing ease and natural felicity of expression, it surpasses any of the other songs of Hector Macneill. A lover's plaid, and a bed of heath, are favourite topics with the northern Muse; when the heather is in bloom it is worthy of becoming the couch of beauty. A sea of brown blossom, undulating as far as the eye can reach, and swarming with wild-bees, is a fine sight.

COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE.

Come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa';
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw;
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me—
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa!
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw:
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.

Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! auld Donald, gae 'wa,
I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw;
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! I'll no sit beside ye;
Ye might be my gutcher :-auld Donald, gae

I'm gaun to meet Johnie, he's young and he's bonnie;
He's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw!
Nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly,
His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw.

Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa',
Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava;
The hale o' his pack he has now on his back;
He's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa.
Be frank now and kin'ly: I'll busk ye aye finely;
To kirk or to market they'll few gang sae braw;
A bien house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in,
And flunkies to 'tend ye as fast as ye ca'.

My father

ay

tauld me, my

mither an' a',

Ye'd make a gude husband, and keep me ay braw;
It's true I lo'e Johnie, he's young and he's bonnie,
But, waes me, I ken, he has naething ava!

I hae little tocher, ye've made a gude offer;
I'm nae mair than twenty; my time is but sma'!
Sae gie me your plaidie, I'll creep in beside ye,
I thought ye'd been aulder than threescore and twa!

She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa',
Whare Johnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a':
The day was appointed!-his proud heart it dunted,
And strack 'gainst his side, as if bursting in twa.
He wander'd hame wearie, the night it was drearie,
And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw:
The howlet was screamin', while Johnie cried, Women
Wad marry auld Nick if he'd keep them ay braw.

O the deil's in the lasses! they gang now sae braw,
They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa;
The hale o' their marriage is gowd and a carriage;
Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw.
Auld dotards, be wary! take tent wha ye marry,
Young wives wi' their coaches they'll whup and they'll
ca',

Till they meet wi' some Johnie that's youthfu' and

bonnie,

And they'll gie ye horns on ilk haffet to claw.